At last he could endure no more and, swinging swiftly in his revolving chair, his glance swept the office.

"In the name of Mike!" he shouted.

"What IS this ?" The reporters nearest him, busy with pencil and typewriters, frowned in impatient protest.

Sam Ward, swinging his legs from the top of a table, was gazing at the ceiling, wrapped in dreams and tobacco smoke.

Upon his clever, clean-cut features the expression was far-away and beatific.